Tinderness
Tinderness
I’m safe. But I’m naked.
I text this to my sister as the entire family waits for me at Easter dinner. I’m wrapped in the spoon of a muscled ginger I matched with back in November when I first started swiping. We finally met last night after his comedy show, then he went to dinner with friends and I with my girlfriend, so this spooning almost didn’t happen. But he sent me that sweet torso pic while I was sleeping just floors away from him at the same hotel—and I had a few hours to kill.
Wanna spoon? Room 2215.
That sounds lovely, but I’m feeling pretty rough. I’m so hung over from tequila shots last night that the idea of cuddling with said ginger in a dark room sounds quite therapeutic.
We can just nap together. I’m pretty tired. I’m just feeling cuddly.
Smooth.
2215. Come.
I buy myself a giant bottle of “Lifewater” because that should work to make me feel human again. I tuck it under my arm like a football and muster courage to pass the elevator attendant with my key for the other tower.
His hotel room is ajar. I push it open a bit and see him in the bathroom brushing his teeth in sweats and no shirt, his sleep hair erect. It’s almost like we woke up together, except I’m wearing a blouse, a blazer and sensible shoes for Sunday dinner.
“Wow, that was fast,” he says. He’s darkened the room and lit a couple of candles. Cuddling.
“Candles huh?” I say.
“I like it… makes it feel more like home. I’m always in hotel rooms.”
“Makes sense,” I say, taking off my jacket and shoes. He stretches out on the bed, his right arm inviting me join him. I do. I nestle my cheek on his pectoral and sink into his warmth. Cuddling. I rest my hand on his stomach. “Sorry, cold hands.”
“It’s ok,” he says, turning his body toward me and kissing me.
He’s one of those guys who devours you as he kisses, lips exploring cheekbones and eyebrows, hands up in my curly mane and pulling it a little. Is he growling? His body envelopes mine as I melt into this Happy Easter.
